Elizabeth and Frandrew: SCENES
by Tessaray
Summary: After a freak experiment "overwrites" him with Drew's memories, Franco seems gone, but is he? Elizabeth doesn't think so and she'll do whatever it takes to get him back. Story briefly nods at canon, then waves bye-bye.
1. 1 Parted

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES **

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**#1 Parted**

Elizabeth stands in the bedroom, in front of the open closet she shares with Franco. His clothes hang on one side, hers on the other… in theory. In practice, he always smuggles something of hers onto his side and something of his onto her side...

It used to drive her crazy, particularly once when she was running late and couldn't find the red blouse she wanted to wear. With a lopsided grin and a twinkle in his eye, he'd dug among his button-down shirts, found her blouse and pulled it free of the hanger. He helped her on with it, lifting and lowering her hair, smoothing it down...

_Yin and yang_, he'd shrugged by way of explanation. _Everything contains a bit of its opposite._

She'd rolled her eyes, but now she knows just where to look when she's missing something.

She drops her gaze to the floor and sees another bit of mischief — in the customary spot where her red pumps live, there's now one red pump and one of his big black sneakers snugged next to it. This is new. And she finds, as she scans the row of shoes, that he's done the same with all of them — each of her left shoes is paired with a right one of his. Tiny and sleek beside big and sturdy, all the way down the line…

She imagines him squatting there only days before, chuckling to himself with childlike glee, mating the pairs of opposites… and the anguish that flares inside her almost drives her to her knees.

But she won't cry tonight. She clenches her jaw, drags her gaze from the shoes and runs her hand along the row of hangers on her side of the closet, and sure enough — there, stuffed among her dresses and flowery blouses, is his light blue button-down. She pulls it free, lifts it to her face — is disappointed to find no scent but detergent. Still, she undresses, lets her clothes drop piece by piece to the floor at her feet and slips on his shirt. She swims in it, the hem falling almost to her knees. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, invoking his tender, enveloping embrace, crawls into her side of the bed and turns off the light.

She pulls his pillow to her and hugs it close, imagines Franco's body, inhales his scent from the pillow case until it fills her.

_I don't know you and I don't want to know you…_

His eyes were so cold when he said that to her, his voice even colder, echoing down the hospital corridor, echoing in her mind…

But everything contains a bit of its opposite. Franco is still there, somewhere inside the stranger who stole his body. She believes that — she has to. And she won't cry tonight. She's done enough crying.

Tonight, she prepares.

#

This body feels strange… like being inside a poorly-fitting uniform. It's strong enough, yet the proportions are off, the senses not as keen as his own…

It's possible that the face looking back at him from the mirror in the hospital was surgically altered. But he has to accept, by the evidence of his lived experience, that this body is not his body. The testimony of others means nothing to him — they have agendas and can't be trusted.

His life, as he remembers it, is vivid, linear, with no breaks. And he is _himself_, has spent that life becoming himself… with no room for doubt, weakness or error. It's had to be so. And these people, if they are to be believed, want to end his life in this body.

The jailhouse cot squeaks beneath him — God knows he's had worse. He stretches this body's neck, rolls the shoulders, notices stiffness, twinges that shouldn't be there. The lower back is aching, the puncture wound on the left forearm draws his attention — that's where they drugged him. He stomps down on a flicker of fear, killing it dead, just as he's done with all the emotions that have arisen — fear, confusion, panic, dread, and the strange grief that has been hunting him all day. He can't allow vulnerability. But the rage, he lets that simmer. It could prove useful.

He needs to think this through, to regroup and strategize, but this body is tired. He sleeps on his back — always has, and never deeply — but this body wants to roll on its side and reach, seeking or offering comfort…

He snarls, slams the eyelids shut, sees in his mind's eye the sun sinking toward the barren hills of Kabul. And he hears the crying boy again.

He's heard so many sounds of anguish in his career that the age and gender of the sufferers have grown indistinguishable — but this is different. It's clear, recent, familiar. It exists in a haze where light meets darkness… and it pierces his heart.

#


	2. 2 Dreams

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**#2 Dreams**

Elizabeth's shoulders are chilly. Franco always keeps the studio too cold… but he gets hot when he works, feverish with inspiration and effort. Even from this side of the easel, she can see his skin glistening with perspiration, can easily recall the taste of salt, the tang of his aftershave…

She licks her lips to prolong the sense memory, pulls the thin fabric tighter around her body, careful to hold the pose he set for her. He wanted a bit more cleavage than she's comfortable with — even after all this time, after countless hours of lovemaking, of lying naked and breathless in each other's arms, she's still shy with him in this setting — but he's the artist and she's his model... his muse. And he's hers — he challenges her, reminds her that she's bold and fierce, afraid of nothing, during those increasingly rare moments when she forgets. But above all, it's erotic, posing for him, it's their special time together... so of course, she does as he asks…

His eyes on her are hot, intense and probing, his body loose but vibrating with kinetic energy. A nearby light is trained on her, and she's warmer now, hears his brush slapping and scratching over the canvas, the juicy squish of paint. He barely looks at his work, barely looks at his palette as he mixes his colors. He watches only her, fixing her to this time and place as though she might vanish. And she watches him just as avidly, heart full, loving him utterly as he creates, as he sinks away inside himself… sinks far away…

She flinches as sounds appear in the distance; not in the hallway outside the studio, but floating high above. Female voices, inaudible at first, then clarifying, twining around each other like creeping vines:

_Hold on to this one… _

_You need to keep a firm grip on the one you love, no matter what…_

And another voice, so soft, so low she has to listen to the spaces and silences between the others to hear it…

Franco's voice. He's no longer painting… he's with her in their bed now, his body moving slowly, sensuously with hers.

_Hold me_, he's whispering in the gathering darkness, _Hold me, Elizabeth_…

But the words are tinged with anguish… and they rise to a sudden desperate pitch:

_Hold onto me, Elizabeth, no matter what. Hold on, please… don't let me go…_

#

Elizabeth jerks awake, gasping for air, a sob caught high in her chest. She forces herself to be still, to listen to his cry echoing in her mind, doesn't dare speak his name for fear of breaking this tendril, this gossamer thread of connection. She feels him with her, always does when she has these dreams… he's close, reaching out for her in the only way he can.

"I won't," she whispers, clutching his pillow tight in her arms until his scent surrounds her, until she can feel the warmth of his body. "I promise I'll never let you go. No matter what."

##

In the Metro Court Hotel, Drew sits bolt upright in bed, blinking and swallowing down the cry that has gathered in his throat. The ghost of a dream is vanishing even as he reaches for it — it's about that nurse again, _Franco's_ wife. He can still feel the heat of her skin on his… and curves, softness… urgency. He shakes his head to clear it, to banish arousal, starts to shove his hand into his hair… and only then does he feel the pain. He looks down to see that the fingers of his right hand are cramped as though gripping an invisible tool — a screwdriver, maybe…

No.

A fucking _paintbrush_.

He growls, rolls from the bed and heads to the bathroom for a cold shower.

This shit has _got_ to stop…

_#_


	3. 3 Eyes

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**#3 Eyes**

When Drew closes his eyes now, what appears in his darkened field of vision isn't flashes of memory or echoes of his institutional surroundings. It isn't Kim.

It's Elizabeth's eyes.

Clear and dark as a midnight sky…

_Indigo._

The word rises, familiar yet not, like all the other unwelcome words that keep inserting themselves into his brain. Words he knows but would never use.

No, not _indigo_, he silently growls at the source of the word, the source of all the alien dreams and impulses he's constantly battling to suppress. Her eyes were _hard_ as he lay helpless in that hospital bed. They were _resolved_. They drilled into him with a determination that still shakes him. She's committed to the mission, will stop at nothing to end him and bring back Franco.

Elizabeth has a warrior's eyes.

He whispers the first two syllables of her name, clamps his mouth shut on the third. He wants to think of her as _that nurse_, or as Franco's pitiful wife, but she's become fully herself to him now, three-dimensional and compelling…

_Elizabeth._

He pushes the name away, finds that he's slouching again. With a hiss, he straightens it up — shoulders back, chin high, fingers instinctively curling around something—

He curses, flails, flings the invisible paintbrush to the floor of the day room and can almost hear the clatter of wood on linoleum. He notices eyes on him then, drawn by his sudden movement — some are rheumy and dim, others are narrowed, suspicious. They belong to people who belong in this place; people unlike him, people out of touch with reality…

The day nurse has looked up from her book and is watching him with open curiosity, so he swallows, stretches his neck, makes a show of rubbing his hand — _see, it's nothing, just a cramp…_ not a violent reaction to the parasite trying to seize control of his body and mind.

When the nurse loses interest in him and returns to her book, he slams his eyes closed, tries to center himself… but there she is again — Elizabeth, leaning too close over his prone body, her breath warm and sweet on his face…

Elizabeth. Determined to control him, cage him, kill him. Not because she hates him…

But because she loves Franco.

He winces, bites down hard on his teeth at this simple, raw truth. That's what really shook him, and shakes him still — not the fear of his own end, but the evidence of his own poverty.

He's never loved or been loved like that. Not even close. And he hadn't realized it until Elizabeth's eyes told him so. The thing he shared with Kim — the thing he _called_ love that had sustained him for years — felt shallow, flimsy and adolescent by comparison.

Elizabeth's love for Franco is a savage force that penetrated him, stripped him bare, left him weak. It almost made him offer himself, sacrifice himself… just like Franco did.

He can understand why Franco did it… but not how. How could he have turned his back on that consuming love, on those formidable eyes?

He blinks, finds that people are stirring around him, rising from their chairs, leaving the day room singly and in hunched pairs. Time for dinner. He's hungry, too… but for something much deeper and more necessary than food.

Elizabeth isn't the only warrior in this fight.

_#_


	4. Studio, Part One

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 1**

Drew switches on the overhead lights and stands in the center of Franco's studio, critically scanning the space. The contents are strange, yet not. From his dreams, he vaguely recognizes the giant scissors, the jagged graffiti markings on the walls, the dismembered mannequin parts… the undertones of chaos and violence…

And it strikes him for the first time that he has something in common with the man, besides the use of this body — they're both bringers of death.

Pre-op Franco may have murdered people for fun and profit, Drew may have killed for his country... but they've each caused and observed close-hand that mysterious moment when whatever animates a human being — consciousness, soul, simple electrical impulses — vanishes, leaving only a carcass.

Lately, he's had to contend with the subject far more than he'd like.

Yet what is this situation, really, but a kind of warfare? The difference is, he's never had to confront the grieving widow or the orphaned children before. He's never had to walk around with the dead man's face or feel him squirming inside like a parasite…

But it's all over now. He's won his competency hearing. He has the blessing of the American legal system to remain alive and free, and he intends to make the most of it. But he needed to come here first and learn all he can about his enemy in order to fight him, to end these alien dreams and impulses, to end all traces of Franco, forever...

That's what he tells himself, anyway. In truth, he doesn't know why he's here. After the hearing, he'd left Kim in the courthouse, telling her, as he gently disentangled from her grasping hands, that he needed time. He hurried back to the Metrocourt then, to change (the phony uniform was suffocating him and he couldn't get out of it fast enough) and to think about his future. But the shocked, devastated faces of Franco's family haunted him, wouldn't leave him be. He needed fresh air before he punched something, so he left the hotel, climbed into Franco's car, dropped the top and ended up here, blinking in the bright overhead lights.

His body knows this place well. It automatically approaches the heavy easel dominating the room and stands at a slight angle to it. He looks down to find that his fingers are curled around that damned invisible paintbrush again and he curses, reminds himself it's not the parasite taking over — it's instinct, muscle memory, pure and simple. His original body had it in spades; among other things, his hands could disassemble and reassemble his rifle within seconds with barely a glance or a thought. He doubts he could accomplish that with these hands... but these hands have other abilities...

They know how to artfully arrange a body. They know how to draw and paint. They know how to love Elizabeth…

He flashes on her in the courtroom today, proud and determined in her dark suit, eyes different from that day in the psych ward when they were filled with fierce, desperate love. No, today, she looked at him with hostility, like he was the enemy. It twisted his gut, made him swallow a throatful of pain.

He shuts down the memory, stalks to the metal shelving unit by the wall and roughly pulls out a handful of paintings. He examines each in turn before shoving them back again. It's all trash. Certainly nothing he'd call art.

Yet… they were made by _these hands_. Franco may have been a destroyer… but he was also a creator. What has Drew ever created, except a son he never knew?

He growls, drops into an overstuffed, spray-painted chair by the counter. His body wants to lean back, throw a leg over the arm, sprawl itself in a way Drew finds distasteful and undisciplined, but he allows it. He feels a lump beneath him, reaches under the cushion and pulls out a spiral-bound book. Mildly curious, he opens it, finds page after page of pencil sketches of unfamiliar faces in varying degrees of finish. Some he grudgingly finds impressive, some troubling, some amusing… until he reaches a series that stops him dead. Drawings of Elizabeth. Dozens of them. Naked.

_Nude_, a voice deep in his mind corrects.

He quickly sits up, positions the book in his lap, breath coming faster. He recognizes the setting — she's posed on the very cushions he's now sitting on. The languid sensuality of her body suggests to him that these drawings were done mere moments after lovemaking. He swallows hard and chastises himself — these are private, an expression of intimacy between a husband and wife; it's wrong to gawk at them. He wants to close the book, yet he's mesmerized by her soft expression — tender and trusting, deeply satisfied, utterly in love. He can't recall a woman ever looking at him in quite that way...

He gingerly turns the pages, lingering like a voyeur, feeling guilt, envy… and most of all arousal. A simple reaction to seeing a beautiful, nude woman, he tells himself. But no, this is different. His body is stirring with a deep, carnal heat, like an animal recognizing its mate. His senses register visceral memories of touch, scent and taste as he stares at the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her thighs… undeniable hunger growing inside him…

But something makes him stop. It's a lurching sensation, like a slamming of brakes, and before he knows it, he's turning to the back of the sketchbook and is looking down into the face of a girl he recognizes, a girl with long hair and laughing eyes. _Kiki_. He's seen her photograph… but he _knows_ her, too. He turns the page to find another drawing of her, and another, and another… all rendered in charcoal, each image more haunting than the one before. A raging, violently grieving hand made these images, and he squints at small spots on the paper, thinks they might be dried tears…

Intense, unwelcome emotions suddenly erupt inside him, making him feel alien to himself, on the brink of losing control. _NO_. He doesn't _feel_ in this way — not this deeply, not this wildly. He never has, and he never will. With a snarl, he mentally kicks at them all, trying to scatter them like he would a pack of rabid dogs, slamming the book shut…

And as he does so, a page slips free and flutters to the floor. He pushes it with the toe of his shoe, realizes it's another drawing of Elizabeth, a portrait done in pencil. He bends, lifts it… and gasps at the delicate beauty of the thing. Her eyes are downcast, almost shy, and the hair falling across her brow creates a striking pattern of light and shadow on her skin. He sees the same depth of feeling here as in the drawings of Kiki, but there's no rage, no grief. Rather, it's the opposite — it's tender, reverent... with a profound love that shames him. He raises the page closer to his face, traces the curve of her cheek with his fingertip, caresses the fullness of her lips…

"You don't belong here."

The voice startles him. He shoots to his feet and wheels to find Elizabeth standing in the open doorway of the studio. Her eyes are fierce, her face wounded, radiant, angry, defiant and so beautiful. All at once. He doesn't know how she manages it and it takes his breath away.

"I was just...," he stammers, swallows, shoves her portrait into the sketchbook and holds it in front of himself like a defensive weapon. Her abrupt presence has thrown him... and he's never thrown.

"Put that down, please," she says. He blinks, follows her gaze to the sketchbook in his hands and sets it quickly on the nearby counter like a guilty child.

She scowls, her warrior eyes flashing...

"What are you doing here," she says, like ice. "You won. Why aren't you and Kim on your way to Timbuktu by now?"

He throws his shoulders back, trying to force his body into its usual military stance, but it feels uncomfortable, awkward. Maybe it's the savage way she's looking at him, or the way he was just looking at _her_… but he finds he has no grip on this situation, or on himself.

"I'll go," he says, dropping his eyes.

He takes a few stiff steps toward the door, but she's moving into the room. He straightens his spine, bracing for the inevitable confrontation, but she quickly turns her back to him, closes the door and leans a hand on it as though for support. He hears her pull a few ragged breaths.

"For all intents and purposes," she says quietly, evenly. "You've succeeded in murdering my husband. The fact that you feel you have a right to be here, to ransack his studio, to lay your hands on his private things is… abhorrent to me."

She turns and faces him then, chin held high, exuding a simmering rage that daunts him. "You are going to tell me, right now, exactly what you're doing here."

He shifts his weight, can't quite look at her. "I don't mean to upset you, ma'am… Elizabeth, but—,"

"Ma'am, to you."

He nods, chastened. "Ma'am."

"Go on," she says.

He's not sure how to go on. He's not certain why he's here, doubts she'll accept that answer, but he has no intention of lying to her.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I don't know why I'm here, ma'am," he says, as though addressing a superior officer.

She regards him with narrowed eyes, her posture gradually easing.

"Where's your little _costume_?" she says.

He bristles, clenches his jaw at the mocking tone. "At the hotel."

She moves farther into the room, claiming the space for herself with each advancing step... making him feel small. She's still wearing that dark suit from the courtroom… and it's clear she's been crying. The only thing he seems proficient at these days is making women cry…

_Don't leave, Drew, I can explain…_

He lets Kim's tear-choked voice linger in his mind for a moment, lets his disgust with her bloom in his gut before exhaling it away.

"Funny," Elizabeth is saying. "I figured you'd never take it off. I imagined you parading around in it as proof to the world that you're Drew Cain, Navy Seal."

"Proved it to the judge. No one else matters," he says, and instantly regrets it. It's an unchivalrous victor who gloats.

But she's frozen, dagger eyes locked on him... and they cut him, deep. He wants an altogether different look from her... sensual and tender, like the one captured in those drawings…

"I'm sorry," he says, raising his hands, advancing a step. When she flinches he halts, drops his hands again, heart so heavy it hurts to breathe. "Please understand. I just… I want to live, Elizabeth."

"So did _Franco_," she cries, voice finally breaking. "But you took that chance away from him!"

A dozen self-justifications flood his brain, all accepted by a court-of-law. But none of them will convince her or lessen her pain.

"Yes, ma'am, I did," he says, unconsciously laying a hand over his heart. He sees her eyes widen at the gesture, but he continues. "That's the truth of it. And I know there's nothing I can say or do to make it right. But please know that I'm sorry… for you, for your boys. For Franco even. Believe me, I wish none of this had happened, but it did, and I'm here. I'm not sorry about that. I'm grateful to be alive."

She's been watching him closely throughout his speech, as though parsing his words for a deeper meaning, or maybe evaluating his sincerity…

Finally, she turns away from him and begins wandering silently around the studio, her eyes and fingers trailing over her husband's belongings, the things that remain of him — a stack of blank canvases that will never be filled, a pile of stained and mangled tubes of oil paint, a coffee can stuffed with spiky brushes gathering dust. Her touch slows, her manner grows more contemplative as the minutes pass…

And he waits, feeling suspended. Waits… for what? Permission, absolution…? He doesn't know. He can only watch her, exquisite and utterly transcendent in her grief.

"This place was a sanctuary," she says dreamily, as though lost on another plane. "Not only for him, but for us. Together. Do you remember?" She gently tilts her head toward him.

"How would I remember?" he says.

She gives him an opaque smile, pauses to lay her delicate hands on the large wooden easel. She strokes it, lovingly. "How did you know about this place?" she says like a lullaby.

"I," he begins… but has no clear answer. He shakes his head, stretches his stiff neck. "I must have seen the address somewhere."

"Hmmm, yes, that must be it," she says, nodding vaguely, continuing toward the counter. She stops beside him, eyes lowered. "And how did you get in?"

He absently shoves his hand into his coat pocket, feels the car keys… but no. The key to the studio is on the counter — she's looking right at it… and now she's looking up at him, a strange light in her indigo eyes.

He doesn't remember using the key. He doesn't remember opening the door or coming in…

"Franco keeps the key on top of the door jamb," she says. "Drew would have no way of knowing that."

He goes cold, overwhelmed by a sensation of sinking, and reaches out for the counter to steady himself… but he finds Elizabeth's hand instead. He urgently twines his fingers with hers and she doesn't pull away — even though she should, even though he deserves it. She stays, anchoring him to this time and this place and this body…

And it's only when he's able to make out her words — reassuring words not meant for him — that he tries, and fails, to pull free of her...

"I see you, Franco," she's saying, low and fierce. "I'm here. I'll never let you go."

_**Continued in STUDIO, Part 2...**_


	5. Studio, Part Two

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 2**

The man who stole Franco's body finally pulls his hands free of Elizabeth's grasp.

She's begun trembling, her heart soaring... because even if he had somehow learned about this studio, there's no way he could have known where Franco kept the key… yet there it is, lying on the counter like validation.

Like _proof of_ _life_.

The man who calls himself Drew stands with his back to her now, hands fisted, breathing harsh with sounds of struggle…

"Franco," she calls, willing her husband to break through, to come back to her…

But her heart twists and falls into her gut when he wheels on her.

"No! _NOT Franco_!" he shouts, dark emotions raging over his face... but he stiffens, quickly masters himself and looks directly into her eyes for a long moment.

"Not Franco," he repeats. "But…," he trails off then, eyes dropping away.

"But?" she prompts, shaken, yet hoping his words will reveal another glimpse, another clue...

"But…," he says, swallowing hard. "He had things I… envy."

She stares at him, confused, then follows his gaze to the spiral-bound sketchbook on the counter. She recalls him clutching it before, but his presence here so unnerved her that she hadn't had a chance to absorb the import of it…

"Oh, my God," she gasps, suddenly lightheaded. "You looked through this."

His inhales, jaw working, before he jerks a nod.

"_All_ of it?" she demands, laying a protective hand on the cover.

"Yes."

She knows which one this is. Franco has other books for ideas, quick sketches, for planning his paintings… but this book is special to him. To both of them. It's the one he reaches for when he's feeling things he can't express in words…

"This is _personal_," she says, breathless, fighting both outrage and embarrassment.

"Yes. I'm sorry, ma'am."

"What gave you _the right_ to look at it?"

He gestures lamely toward the chair, head down like a guilty dog. "I was sitting… it was under the cushion, so…," he stammers, halts.

She eyes him with disgust, turns her back and opens the book. She flips through the pages, trying to be casual as wave after wave of memory crashes over her. She sees Franco's emotional renderings of Betsy, of Heather, of Jim Harvey, of other people from his past he'd only begun telling her about… and then she reaches the series of nudes. Her own body in languid repose, breasts and hips so vivid they seem to rise from the pages. Her expression is intimate, adoring… meant only for the eyes of her lover. She remembers the day Franco made these, the way he'd swept her into his arms and laid her down on the makeshift bed, the wild hunger and passion as they devoured each other, bodies and souls merging, fusing until nothing else existed in the world…

And this man had the _gall_ to paw through these images, to see her the way Franco saw her…

"You said Franco has things you envy," she says, bitterly. "I take it you're referring to his _talent_?"

He's been hanging back, head bowed, though she's felt his eyes boring into her. Now he seems emboldened by her question.

"May I?" He reaches toward the book with huge hands, hands she knows so well, but is repulsed by now, whose intentions she can't trust…

She snatches her own hand back to avoid his touch as he tugs at the corner of a piece of paper sandwiched at an odd angle between the others. He slides it out, lays it on top of the sketchbook and steps away as though presenting it to her for inspection.

She looks down, finds that she's staring at her own face, at a portrait Franco drew of her early on, when things were still so new between them. She'd been so self-conscious then, not entirely sure of him. But each line he made, each bit of shading exudes _love_; it emanates from the page, surrounds her so tenderly she can feel Franco's strong arms, his warm breath in her hair. Love that may be gone forever. A wail surges in her chest… but she forces it down. She will not break in front of this stranger.

"What was it about him? What did you see in him?" he says, voice low... and if she didn't know better, she'd say he sounded wistful.

But the audacity of the question fills her with rage. She turns and slowly looks him up and down with open contempt, struck again by the utter _absence_ of Franco in the way he holds himself. Whereas Franco is loose, quick, comfortable in his skin, this man is stiff, inhibited, devoid of energy. She almost laughs at the contrast — how is it possible to make such poor use of such an amazing body? Because he's an invader, a parasite, _that's how_, and his very existence is an abomination. She narrows her eyes, wants him to feel her hatred, to flinch in shame and slink away from this sacred place. But he stands his ground, as cold and soulless as a statue.

"Do you draw?" she spits like an accusation, sure that he doesn't have a creative impulse in him.

He blinks at the non-sequitur. "No."

"Ever try?"

He hesitates, rubs the back of his neck. "Well… at the orphanage, this lady came once a week. Arts and crafts stuff… popsicle sticks, crayons… like that. I tried, but I was never any good. Mrs… oh, her name began with a B...," he squints, gazes off into the middle distance, like anyone trying to recall a long-forgotten snippet of their life. And Elizabeth finds that she's watching his face, wondering just what he's seeing in there, what those implanted memories of his look like… are they in any way similar to her naturally-acquired ones…? And just where the hell is Franco in that mess?

"Mrs. Benjamin. That's it!" he says, and flashes a bright, uncharacteristic smile as though thoroughly pleased with himself. But when he looks at her, the smile vanishes. Back to stoic. Back to blank.

Elizabeth gapes at him, stunned by the outpouring of words, by the _humanity_, and finds herself awash in conflict. It's possible she caught a glimpse of an actual person just now, someone utterly convinced of his individuality and right to exist. Not the enemy, not an abomination. A victim of horrible circumstance, like all of them. Maybe someone who, in another life, she might have been willing to get to know...

He stiffens, looks surprised when she reaches out and takes his wrist. "Come on," she says, hatching a plan as she leads him to the easel. She turns him by the shoulders to face it and lets her hands linger… it's been so long since she touched Franco, felt the heat and strength of his body…

"I don't know how…," he's saying.

"Try." She quickly drops her hands, feeling like a traitor, and goes to the stack of sketchpads on Franco's shelf. She pulls one free, opens it to a fresh page and sets it on the easel. Then she takes a sharpened pencil from the tray and holds it out to him.

He looks from her to the pencil and back again, shakes his head. A few strands of hair come loose from the gelled mass and fall over his forehead.

"Take it," she says, resisting the urge to smooth them back.

He reaches for the pencil… and his hand seems to accept it eagerly, gratefully, like a thirsty man accepting a drink of water. Her heart leaps as she watches him position the pencil in that awkward way Franco does — grasped sideways between thumb and forefinger...

He sees it, too. "Muscle memory. Doesn't mean a thing," he grumbles, clears his throat.

She almost feels sorry for him.

"I'll pose for you," she says and as she moves to the yellow spray-painted chair, she hears a familiar squeal behind her. With a surge of joy, she knows that it's _Franco_ dragging the heavy easel to his favorite position on the concrete floor.

"I can't do this, ma'am," he snarls, skin flushed, mouth a hard, tight line. His hazel eyes are glaring at the easel like it's an enemy who's gotten the better of him.

"So don't," she says as nonchalantly as she can, and seats herself, fluffs her hair and settles back into the cushions. "No one is forcing you… or are they?"

He pulls and expels a harsh, impatient sigh.

"Franco is _gone_. You have to accept that. You're only torturing yourself."

She doesn't reply, simply turns her head, finds her usual spot on the wall — a bit of graffiti where hard black and white edges meet and merge into gray — fixes her gaze on it, and waits. At first, she hears nothing from behind the easel but grumbles and frustrated sighs, the clack of the pencil being thrown into the tray, then the scrabble and curse as it's picked up again. Finally, a few tentative scratches across the paper, followed by a few more…

"I don't even know what the hell I'm doing," he mutters. But the sounds of drawing continue, and as the minutes pass, they grow more confident, more fluid…

Elizabeth has been cultivating an air of detached boredom, but in fact, she's laser-focused on the man behind the easel, noticing every subtle shift in his energy, each movement or unconscious gesture that suggests Franco's presence.

"It's interesting. Drew is the past tense of draw," she says vaguely, deliberately baiting him, partly out of lingering spite, partly to see who's really got control of that pencil. "Franco loves to play with language. He'll have fun with all this when he gets back... when he's the present tense and you're the past tense, so to speak. No offense, by the way."

The sounds of drawing pause.

"None taken… _ma'am_."

Then they resume and intensify, so aggressively she fears for the paper. She's disappointed Drew is still in control, of course, but what gives her hope is the fact that he's staying, or being _made_ to stay, clearly in spite of himself.

Because Franco is here. She knows it, feels it in her soul. She lets herself indulge, heart swelling as she imagines the man himself standing behind the easel, observing her in that erotic way of his, his gaze like whispered caresses on her skin. And under that gaze, she sighs and begins to relax, her strained nerves and tendons gradually untwist, releasing months of anxiety and grief, her bones realign until she's able to recognize herself again… and everything seems right in the world. She drifts then, losing herself in Franco's loving embrace…

Until she realizes that the sounds of drawing have stopped. She looks up at the man behind the easel; his eyes are hooded and so intense her skin prickles.

"Take off your jacket," he demands.

She stiffens, jerked back to reality. That is certainly not Franco — Franco would say _please_, his tone would be soft — but it's not _not_ Franco, either.

She hesitates… then leans forward, works her arms out of the black suit jacket, folds it and lays it on the floor at her feet. His eyes grow hotter as he watches her settle back and resume her pose. She returns her gaze to the wall, feeling vulnerable, her nipples hardening beneath her thin black camisole in the cool air of the room.

And suddenly she remembers that this man is a parasite. This man pawed through Franco's private sketchbook, saw those incredibly intimate images of her, naked, open...

He said he envies Franco.

She abruptly hunches her shoulders and protectively crosses her arms over herself. He's _not Franco_. For all she knows, he's just scribbling behind that easel, stalling for time… and God knows what he's thinking, what he wants…

But he's not _not_ Franco.

And that's the only reason she lifts her chin, lowers her arms, and stays.

** _To be continued in STUDIO, Part 3..._ **


	6. Studio, Part Three

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 3**

Drew watches Elizabeth settle back into the cushions of the overstuffed armchair. She seems on edge now, wary of him… maybe even a bit intimidated.

And he's glad.

Before, as he'd been attempting to draw her portrait, he'd felt a quiet rapport growing between them, like maybe she'd begun to… well, not _trust_ him exactly, but at least tolerate his existence. It had been their first and only experience together without pain, bitterness or guilt…

And then he'd noticed a faraway softness rising in her eyes, an intimate curve forming on her lips. He knows that look from the sketchbook… and he knew it wasn't for him. No, she'd been thinking of Franco, imagining _him_ behind this easel…

He's rarely aggressive toward civilians, least of all women, but that made him angry. It made him need to take control of this situation… of her…

_Take off your jacket…_

He knows his anger is irrational. Why should that soft expression be for _him_? What has he done to deserve it? Why should he expect anything but outright contempt from her?

Yet, when she'd touched him earlier, led him to this easel, he'd felt a deep shock of recognition, a painful yearning… and a weird pressure has been building inside him ever since. It hasn't helped that images keep flashing before his eyes… of her languid, sated body, of the curve of her hips, her generous breasts. And the images aren't drawings or fantasies — they're _memories_, complete with sounds, scents, tastes — and he finds that he's once more at the mercy of the deep, carnal hunger that had ignited when he first set eyes on her in those sketches…

The problem is, she's in love with the man who made them, and in her mind, he, _Drew_, killed that man. And he's keeping him dead because he's a selfish, heartless bastard… a _coward_…

He hauls a burning breath and focuses on Elizabeth. She's rigid in the chair, eyes fixed on her spot on the wall. Everything about her is remote and defended now… but her spirit seems to be reaching like an invisible hand, stirring him deeply… and her lips are so red and full, her bare arms are shimmering and flawless, flooding him with unbidden sense memories — they tell him that her skin feels like warm milk flowing beneath his fingertips… that her neck arches beneath his mouth as she wraps her overheated body around his and breathes a name…

_Franco…_

He hisses, grinds his teeth. He shouldn't know these things, can't bear to. The knowledge is creating intolerable chaos in his mind, gripping him as ruthlessly as he's gripping this goddamned pencil in his hand. So he does the only thing he can — he calls on his years of training, discipline and experience, and treats this enemy like any other. He kills it dead.

"I made you uncomfortable before," he says, gruff, detached, but his voice rings like a gunshot in the too silent room.

Elizabeth flinches, regroups instantly. "No, you didn't," she says flatly.

"No?" he says, not displeased that he startled her. "You seemed—,"

"—I wasn't," she snaps, lifts her chin and regally pushes her hair back from her forehead. "It's just that when Franco makes a request, he's _polite _about it."

"I know," he says without thinking.

Her eyes dart to him and lock on. "_How_ do you know?"

"Because Franco is fucking_ perfect_," he snarls, and instantly regrets it.

"_Is_?" she says, her brow arching into that _Gotcha_ expression that shows up anytime she thinks she's caught Franco's scent.

And frankly, he's tired of it. He's tired of her fishing expeditions, of her reading into innocent comments, of her trying to push his buttons. Franco's _gone_, and everything that's happened here — from finding the studio key to knowing where to put the easel to how to hold this damn pencil that's been haunting his dreams for weeks — all of it can be explained by muscle memory. He's in another man's body, and that body has accrued a lifetime's worth of unconscious habits that emerge in familiar situations. That's it, end of story. And the images and sense memories tormenting him are nothing but an alien brain firing residual electrical impulses. It's perfectly simple.

He angrily tosses the pencil into the tray, squares his shoulders, throws out his chest, make his spine ramrod straight. Now _this_ posture is his and his alone. It restores order to his universe.

"It won't work, you know," he tells her like an accusation. "Trying to get _him_ back by sticking me behind this easel."

She shrugs. "So stop. Walk away."

She's so poised, so beautiful. It stings that she doesn't bother to deny her little ploy. He snarls, watches himself turn, yank open the door and leave without a word or backward glance… but his body seems to be staying rooted to the spot… and the pencil is in his hand again.

He stares at it like it's shrapnel embedded in his flesh. He's aware of the pressure inside, building, pushing outward like an overinflated balloon, and yes, he should _walk away_…

But why the hell would he? He's stronger than whatever this is — this collection of impulses, these fragments of memory. He's got the Navy Cross for Extraordinary Heroism, for chrissakes!

"Look," he barks like a command, but she just rolls her eyes at his tone and resumes staring at the wall. "Not that you asked, not that anyone did, but coming to in that hospital bed was like waking up in one of those new self-driving cars I've been reading about. It was barreling down the highway, all systems set — direction, speed, destination, even the radio — and I didn't have any control over anything. But I do now. I have control now, understand? And I'm not giving it up."

"Just don't get too comfortable," she says, not bothering to look at him. "That car you're in? It's only a rental."

Before a retort can form in his mind, she's continuing:

"Though it does beg the question — if you're so in control, why have you parked the car here in Franco's studio, instead of flooring it out of town?"

Her voice is icy and he swallows down a lump of dry. It's a great question and he has no fucking answer. He did earlier — something about confronting the enemy, learning his ways in order to annihilate him…

But the truth is, he's here because he wants to be. In fact, there's nowhere he'd rather be.

And he hates it.

He's resolved not to lie to her, so he ignores the question and instead studies her portrait on the easel before him. Surprisingly, it's not terrible… but something is definitely off. He squints, cocks his head… it's her left eye. He picks a kneaded eraser out of the tray, molds it to a blunt point, erases a portion of the eye and redraws it from memory… because he can't bring himself to look at her. When he's done he steps back — nope, still off. He huffs in frustration. He's used to things coming easily, to achieving a quick mastery of whatever he tries, but he can't master this. Even with Franco's hand, Franco's tools and Franco's muse in the chair before him, his results are clumsy, amateurish.

She deserves better.

"You're not leaving with Kim, are you?" Her voice catches him off guard. It's soft, musical, drifting down like a warm rain…

"No," he says utterly disarmed.

"Why?"

He glances up at her. She's leaning forward, watching him with those formidable indigo eyes of hers. A warrior's eyes, hunting for weakness.

"Trying to get rid of me now?" he grunts to mask sudden turmoil. "You've done everything in your power to keep me here. Ankle monitor, psych ward, medical proxy—"

"Yes," she says. "And I failed. So tell me, why—"

"—I don't have a plan yet," he cuts her off, too harshly.

"But, I thought you and Kim—,"

"Kim is no longer a factor."

He's surprised by how abruptly he answers, and with how much certainty. He has no intention of seeing Kim again, and he hadn't realized it until this exact moment. He tries to refocus on the drawing, but it seems to be fading at the edges…

He hears a soft sound of surprise, hears Elizabeth's clothing rasp as she shifts position. He presses the pencil to the paper and begins darkening her mass of hair, a back-and-forth motion, a loud, frantic scratching that almost, but not quite, keeps the unavoidable question from reaching his ears…

"Why are you still here, Drew? Tell me. I need to know."

He freezes, his heart soaring at the sound of his name on her lips. He quickly parses her tone — tender, plaintive… not stern, not accusing. It's a tone that gives him courage. Enough courage to be honest.

"I'm here because I want to be with you, Elizabeth," he says and holds his breath.

Her lips part as if to speak, but she's silent. Into that silence a hundred images and impulses project themselves — fragments of memory and tender words, crippling doubt and fleeting joy… and yearning most of all. Yearning for union… and for reunion. For a love he has never known… yet knows in the depths of his soul.

Elizabeth's love.

Tears are glistening in her storm-gray eyes now. She slowly closes them, keeps them closed as she speaks — a poignant habit he knows so well his chest tightens…

"_You_ want to be with me," she says, very carefully. "Or Franco does?"

And because he can't lie to her — or to himself any longer — he tells her the truth:

"We both do," he says.

**_To be continued… in STUDIO, Part 4_**


	7. Studio, Part Four

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 4**

Elizabeth freezes like a wolf who's caught a glimpse of a rabbit on the edge of an open field — no sudden movements or it will run back into the brush. But if she can keep her voice steady, keep him from hearing the pounding of her heart... it will be a miracle.

"He's... with you," she says, suppressing a wave of euphoria.

He drops his gaze and pauses, mouth twitching, weight shifting like he wants to get the words right before he speaks.

"There's... residue," he finally says, glancing up at her, eyes guardedly hopeful as they sweep her face.

"I've seen it," she says softly. "Can you describe it?"

"It's like the Twilight Zone," he says, huffing a dry laugh.

"Please?"

He fidgets with the pencil again, tests the now-dull point on the tip of his index finger.

"You're only asking because you're looking for a weakness. Something to exploit."

"Can you blame me?" she says gently, and watches in astonishment as his face shifts from wariness to disappointment to _hurt_, all in the space of a breath. He tosses the pencil in the tray, straightens up, lifts his chin, and just like that the hurt is gone too. Back to stoic. Back to blank. And she's lost him in the brush once more.

"It's the way people describe a phantom limb," he says flatly. "It's gone, but the sensations remain."

He's clearly finished, his lips tight, eyes staring straight ahead like a sentry. She wouldn't be surprised if he started calling her _ma'am _again...

"Sensations?"

"Correct," he says.

"Anything else?"

"Impulses."

She sighs, frustrated. But why should she expect his help? _Name, rank and serial number,_ that's it.

"Anything else?"

"Images."

"Images," she repeats, grabbing on. "You mean _memories_?"

"Uncertain. I can only assume."

"You have his _memories_," she murmurs to herself, quickly calculating new approaches...

"_Not_ memories," he sternly corrects. "Random images firing randomly. No structure or coherence... _Ma'am_," he adds like acid.

And then they're in a stalemate, each stonily regarding the other; she in her armchair, he behind the fortress of his easel. She knows he'll give her no more...

_I'm here because I want to be with you..._

She winces; it was a mistake not to acknowledge the confession. She'd basically dragged it out of him, then she stampeded right over his rare moment of vulnerability in her zeal to get to Franco. Obviously, he took it as a blatant rejection... but she's not here to cater to his ego. It's time for the big guns, but it can't be a full-frontal assault...

She sighs, leans back into the cushions and looks up at him from under her lashes. "Truce?" she says.

"I'm not the one on the attack."

"I don't mean to attack you, Drew. What you said, about both of you wanting to be with me... it confused me. It made me think you were somehow in contact with him, and I wanted to know more. You can understand that, can't you?"

He says nothing, just eyes her suspiciously.

"Anyway," she says, delicately crossing her legs. "Thank you for explaining the situation so fully from your point of view. And also, thank you for what you said. I... I didn't know how to react at first...," she trails off, eyes downcast.

"And now?" he says.

"Now...," She pitches her voice into the sweet, girlish range. "I suppose I'm curious where all this came from. It seems sudden. Before, you were all about Kim and you wanted nothing to do with me—,"

"—You're a beautiful woman, Elizabeth," he says, voice low, a bit breathless.

She bites her lip, twirls a lock of hair around her finger. "I look the same as I did when you first met me, Drew. What changed?"

He swallows, shifts his weight. "Spending time with you, I suppose."

"Could it maybe have something to do with the drawings you saw of me in that sketchbook? It's okay," she quickly adds at his look of mortification. "I minded at first, but... I've gotten used to the idea."

He scowls, utterly unconvinced. "Bull. You wanted to rip my head off. What are you up to?"

"Nothing!" She squirms in the chair, makes a show of nervously pushing her hair back from her forehead. "The truth is... you look like him, and I can't help but... oh, never mind."

"Can't help but what?"

"I just," she stammers, pouring it on. "Do you... have a favorite? Drawing, I mean."

She waits, watches his expression careen from shock to suspicion, to intrigue.

"You're not serious," he says.

"I _am_," she says, seriously, and gives him a shy, encouraging nod.

He stares at her for a long moment, then mutters, "Okaaay," under his breath. He moves awkwardly to the counter, darting dubious, guilty glances at her as he gently sets her portrait aside and opens the sketchbook, turns a few pages... stops and stares down at an image.

"Hey... is that my mom?" he says quietly, fingertips drifting lightly over the page then stopping abruptly. "That _is_ her. How the hell—,"

"—Hmm. Recognize anyone else?" Elizabeth says, heart lodging in her throat.

He blinks, scans the adjacent page, locks onto another image. "This here. This is her boyfriend... Joe something? Can't remember...,"

"Jim Harvey," Elizabeth says.

"Right. Right. I didn't recognize them at first," he murmurs. "Wow, they got old."

"So did you, Andy."

He swivels a curious head toward her.

"Andy?" he laughs. "Why would you call me—,"

Before she can answer, before she can recount his past with Franco, the color drains from his face and he sways like the earth has shifted on its axis.

"_Bobby_," he gasps, "Franco… he was _Bobby_. He was my _brother_."

His eyes suddenly lose focus and he touches his forehead the way Franco does when he's thrown…

"He… he gave me a rabbit's foot," he murmurs from far away...

Elizabeth is buzzing with adrenaline now. She's been on high alert for signs… and here's a big one. She knows how the rabbit's foot came into Franco's possession, that he keeps it in the top right-hand drawer of his dresser beneath a tattered photo of two little boys in matching striped shirts…

"_Who_ gave _who_ a rabbit's foot?" she says pointedly.

Drew looks dazed... but only for a moment. He blinks, goes ramrod straight, drops his hand and closes it into a fist.

"_I_ did," he barks. "I gave the rabbit's foot to Franco. I was confused and got my pronouns twisted, that's all."

"So, you remember?"

"Yeah, _I_ remember. It's _my_ memory."

He glares at her as though daring her to keep going, to keep trying to trap him… but it doesn't last long. He fades again, seems pulled down deep against his will and he goes very still — all but his face. His eyes fly wide, his mouth contorts with horror, with disbelief... with grief. To Elizabeth, it's like watching someone absorb the news that a loved one has died in a tragic accident...

"You know, don't you?" she says with soft, genuine compassion.

He swallows hard, shoves a clawed hand into his hair. "I don't know a damn thing," he rasps. But his eyes are haunted, his breathing ragged.

"I think you do. I think you just remembered what happened to Franco, back when you were boys. You know... because Franco knows."

"I told you, I don't know anything!" he shouts, face like thunder clouds. He flails a hand at her. "It's this place. It's _you_. You're driving me crazy. That's it. Goddammit, I'm _done_." He wheels away and storms toward the door.

"You know what Franco suffered in that house," Elizabeth calls, voice rising in pitch and intensity, desperate to reach him before he vanishes forever. "He protected you from that same fate, Drew. Don't you owe him?"

#

Drew stops dead, shoulders hunched, and tries to gather himself. He's winded, angry, nauseated... but he can't be trembling; he's not that weak, yet here he is, clutching the doorknob in an artist's studio, for God's sake, and he's _trembling_...

Because he does remember. It's staticky and garbled, like a radio that's not quite tuned, but it's there, and the pressure inside is painful, like diving too deep without equalizing. He violently shakes his head to banish the hideous images of brutality, but they're not going anywhere. They're real. He feels them. They happened to this body, to _Bobby_. And because of Bobby, they didn't happen to him...

_Don't you owe him..._

He turns the doorknob, needs to get out of here, to climb into that drop-top of Franco's and take off down the highway, have a good long think about destiny and free will, about choices and debt and honor...

Because even if he were prepared to give her what she wants, would it be worth it? He could submit to the procedure, but the chances of failure are too great; there's no guaranteeing either he or Franco would survive...

He suddenly recalls a feeling he had earlier, when he saw the key to the studio on the counter and realized he hadn't put it there, hadn't let himself in. It was more than disorientation — it was a sensation of sinking away into darkness... and he might have, if Elizabeth hadn't been holding his hand.

Sinking away. Could it be that simple? Could he make the decision and just slip beneath the waves, just like any other mission?

Is that where Franco is — somewhere beneath the waves?

He shudders as a surge of terror swamps him. Never in his life has he been a coward; not during violent abuse at the orphanage, not pinned down under enemy gunfire, not in that Afghani prison. He's the one who always volunteered for the most dangerous missions, and he always made it out alive.

Yet he knows that Elizabeth will be the death of him.

_**To be continued in STUDIO, Part 5...**_


	8. Studio, Part Five

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 5**

Elizabeth's own fists are clenched, her jaw tight as she watches Drew engage in some inner battle. With all her might, she wills him to lose that battle, to stay and do the right thing, to let Franco come back by whatever means necessary...

Finally, he releases the doorknob, heaves a weary sigh and slumps, head hanging low. He seems more defeated than she's ever seen him.

"Impressive tactics, Nurse Webber," he says in a tone of grudging respect. "Very sneaky."

"Nurse Webber-_Baldwin_," she states, with pride, relief... but his use of her pet name has roused more _complex_ emotions...

"I stand corrected," he says, back still to her. Although he's clad in black, from this angle he's indistinguishable from Franco, and the sight stirs her. She can imagine moving up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist...

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he says, breaking her reverie.

"Would you have believed me?" she replies, feeling vaguely guilty about several things at once.

He turns to her, scrubs both hands over his face. "Yeah well, probably not. I'd have figured it was another trick. A _different_ trick from the one you actually pulled."

Another pang of guilt, but she ignores it and lifts her chin defiantly. "I won't apologize for using any means at my disposal to get my husband back. Still," she says, softening. "I am sorry that you were blindsided. I'm sure those memories are upsetting."

He stares at her then, darkly, and she has a distinct impression that he's sizing her up. It makes her skin prickle. By the time he's straightened himself to his full height and squared his shoulders, she knows the dynamic between them has most definitely shifted.

"There are bad memories," he says, voice smooth and low. "But there are others, too. Want to hear about those?"

She braces, knows he's setting her up... but he might reveal something valuable...

"Do you want to know what it feels like to hold you?" he continues, not waiting for an answer.

Her body goes cold, then hot at the words... and at their implication. Of course. If he can tap into Franco's memories...

He slowly approaches her, stops just in front of the chair she's now uncomfortably seated in. He's looming in such a way that he blocks out the overhead light, casting her in shadow. She opens her mouth, draws breath to put a quick stop to whatever is happening... when it occurs to her that physical closeness just might be the most direct line to Franco...

"I remember how your hair feels between my fingers," he's saying, scanning her face with hooded eyes. He hesitates only a moment before slipping his hands into her hair. She stiffens, but allows it, detaching herself enough to observe; she knows his hands and fingers almost as well as she knows her own, yet the quality of his touch is rough, strange...

He sinks to his knees in front of her, lifts her hair and watches it flow down over his hands like a waterfall.

"Just like I thought," he murmurs. His eyes slowly sweep her lips, her throat, dipping to her chest and the thin black camisole. "And your skin...," He lowers his hands to her shoulders, closes his eyes and gently slides his warm palms down her bare arms, sighing like a famished man finally given food.

She's on guard, watching him carefully, but she can't help being moved as he glories in the feel of her... can't help wondering what else he knows…

But of course, he knows whatever Franco knows. Which is _everything_.

Just as she's dealing with that shocking thought, he opens his eyes again. They're lighter now, less intense and they glance at her mouth before darting away. He suddenly seems much less sure of himself, as though such close proximity to her is draining him somehow... like she's his kryptonite. Still, he leans in, pauses long enough to give her a chance to retreat... but she doesn't. When his lips touch hers, she feels a joyous shock of recognition... but his kiss isn't Franco's kiss. It's harder, less sensual — yet she finds herself accepting it, parting her lips…

With a harsh gasp he abruptly pulls away, his hands tightening like vises on her shoulders and he gathers himself with a visible force of will.

"This is his body," he says in a rush. "These are _his_ hands, it's _his_ mouth… so it wouldn't be that different for you."

Elizabeth gapes at him, stunned, confused. "What... what are you saying?"

"We could be together. Just give me a chance. There's so much of him in here, I know you could come to care about me—,"

"—Drew, stop!" she cries, recoiling, hands raised high to silence the desperate plea. And just as quickly she's flooded with shame. She should never have encouraged him or let things go this far — he's a prisoner of Franco's memories and desires, and he doesn't even know it...

"Please... I'm going crazy," he says, eyes wild.

"No, Drew. This isn't you! This isn't something you would choose for yourself. Don't you see—,"

"—It _is_. I want to be with you — I do. _I_ do, no one else. And I could make you happy. I know how. I could do everything he does…,"

She shakes her head, eyes filling with tears of pity, of compassion. "You're talking about sex, Drew... not love. What Franco and I have is so much deeper than that. Our connection is—,"

"—Connection," he snarls like it's a ridiculous notion she needs to get over. His hands are moving on her arms again, he's leaning in... but suddenly he freezes like he's been grabbed by the scruff of the neck, and he drops back hard on his heels... head cocked like he's tuning in to a frequency she can't hear...

"Connection. Like… an art... collaboration?" he says haltingly, as though the words puzzle him. He looks up at her for confirmation, his breathing labored...

"_Yes_!" Elizabeth cries, overjoyed by this blatant sign from Franco — his words to her... his _promise_... the evening she sketched his portrait. "When one of us falls, the other is there—,"

"—to pick them up," he finishes hollowly... and gapes at her. She braces for his anger, for the denial and defiance that are surely coming… but they don't.

"That's what you mean by connection?" he says.

"Partly,' she whispers, almost too dizzy to speak. "That's one aspect."

He nods, looks past her, eyes unfocused. "And he made you laugh… all the time. Is that part of it, too?" he says quietly. "Your laughter... it fills my head. But here, here in real life… I've never even seen you smile. Not really. Not at me."

She sadly cups his face with both hands, lets her thumbs trace the shape from his high cheekbones to the nascent stubble on his jaw.

"How can I smile when I've lost part of my soul…?"

His eyes close tightly at that and he leans heavily into her touch.

"He meant that much to you."

"He means everything to me."

When he opens his eyes again, she sees a wounded child — defenseless, haunted by deep, ancient hurt.

"I've never had that," he says through gritted teeth. "I've never meant that much to anyone."

His vulnerability almost breaks her resolve... but as she softly caresses his face, she focuses on her objective.

"But you _have_," she says. "You meant everything to Betsy. It tore her heart out to send you away, but it was crucial to her that you were safe. And Franco could have let Jim Harvey move on from him to you, but he didn't. He couldn't. He had to protect you, even if that meant—,"

"—Sacrificing himself," Drew whispers. She feels his jaw working beneath her hands as though he's fighting back tears.

"Yes," she nods. "That's how much he loved you. You were his brother."

It seems she might be getting through to him — he's listening, his eyes downcast — so she pushes, despite the growing regret in her heart.

"You know the rest now. You know what Jim Harvey continued to do to him after you left. You know the hell Franco endured, the darkness and chaos and madness... and how hard he fought to become the man he is today. He deserves to come back to us, Drew. To the life he's built."

She's quiet then, breathlessly waiting and watching, thinking ahead, preparing her next move in case this fails. Whatever it takes...

Finally, Drew presses his lips into a hard line, pulls her hands from his face and folds them in his own. "You need to stop this, Elizabeth," he says. "I know what you're doing, but you have to understand that if I go, there's no one in here to take my place. You'll end up with a shell. I'm convinced of that. These memories may be real, but the man who formed them is gone. He's _gone_." He takes a deep breath and looks at her imploringly. "_Accept_ it. Please."

He's so vehement, so sincere in his caring that she knows he's telling the truth. As far as he sees it. Even so, she leans in close and locks into his eyes. "I hear you," she says. "But I'm asking you to try. Please, Drew, it's a risk I'm willing to take. Are you willing to risk it? For me... for my boys. For Bobby?"

_For Bobby..._

A wave of grief shudders through him... and suddenly what was hazy and staticky is now clear as day. He can see Bobby... and he can also see himself as Bobby saw him — a blond and blue-eyed wisp of a kid. He can feel the brotherly bond between them... and the dark claustrophobia of the cedar chest Bobby locked him inside, the dizzying fall and crack of bones as he hits the basement floor. But now he can relive it all from Bobby's point of view, too — and experience his urgency, his terror, his shame. Such overwhelming shame. It's all available to him now; he can revisit the moments of Franco's life as easily as he can revisit his own... and he finds there a raging river of insanity and anguish, of struggle and hope… and finally, a consuming love, hard-fought and well-earned. A love, he now knows, that belongs to Franco alone...

"Let him come back to us," Elizabeth is whispering like a lullaby. "If there's any chance, let him live his life. I'm begging you."

_If there's any chance... are you willing to risk it...?_

She takes his face between her hands again and kisses him gently… and this time, it's enough. He needs no more. When she breaks the kiss, he looks deeply into her eyes and nods until he sees her tears of understanding. He lowers his head then before he can change his mind. Her indigo eyes, her victorious warrior's eyes are the last thing he wants to see. He lays his cheek on her thigh, slips his arms around the soft curves of her hips, laces his fingers behind her and holds on tight.

"I'll never forget you," she murmurs, voice thick with emotion. "Never."

A pressure rises from deep inside him… poignant and undeniable. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply… and finds that it's just as he'd suspected — he can simply let go. It's as simple as that, and surprisingly effortless — just a deliberate submerging, like he'd done thousands of times in the past, in all the oceans of the world. He imagines he's in his wetsuit, dive gear strapped to his body in preparation for sinking beneath the welcoming waves. In many ways, this is just another mission…

But this time, Elizabeth is there. She's warm in his arms, her hand is stroking his hair… and the last thing he feels, as the darkness engulfs him… is love.

#

Elizabeth feels a change — a sense of departure, like whatever spirit had been animating this body in her lap is gone. And now it's a dead weight, heavy and lifeless, and the arms that had been encircling her hips, holding on so tightly, are falling away…

"Franco," she calls, both elated and terrified.

He doesn't move, doesn't respond… and she quickly realizes that he doesn't seem to be breathing…

_If I go, there's no one in here to take my place..._

"Franco!" she cries, frantically shoving Drew's dire warning away. She presses her fingers beneath his ear — his pulse is weak, but there. She feels him begin to slide from her lap; she grapples to hold his body upright, but he's too heavy for her. She eases him to the floor as best she can and kneels beside him…

"Franco! Answer me!" she cries, lightly slapping his cheeks. He's completely unresponsive, just as he'd been during those hideous days in the hospital as she'd waited for him to wake up, not knowing if he would ever come back to her… and who he would be if he did…

She notices movement behind his eyelids.

"Franco!"

His eyes flutter and slowly open. He blinks, stares at the ceiling. She cries out with relief, is about to throw herself on his chest… but he's registering no awareness of his surroundings, or of her. His body is motionless, jaw slack, expression blank — a void where a spark of life used to be.

_You'll end up with a shell, I'm convinced of that..._

"No, you're not doing this to me again!" Elizabeth wails. She shakes him as hard as she can, demanding a reaction. Could she have been so _wrong_? Has she lost both of them? "Please, Franco, it's me! _Say something_!"

But she might as well be shaking a cadaver. She gets nothing for her trouble but a silent, vacant stare.

Overcome by exhaustion and despair, she sags bonelessly to the floor, heart breaking, tears flowing down her cheeks. "No… please, no," she whispers… but fierce determination forces to her knees again and she leans over him, strokes his face with her hands, her lips…

"Dammit, Franco, you have to come back," she says, anger burning in her gut. "You _promised_."

She rears back as his body suddenly shudders, and a sharp, stunned inhalation expands his chest… followed by a bout of harsh coughing that gradually gives way to hearty, beloved laughter...

"Good God," Franco says when he catches his breath. "I thought he'd never leave."

_**To be continued in STUDIO, Part 6...**_


	9. Studio, Part Six

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 6**

There, on the hard floor of the studio, Elizabeth and Franco hold each other, alternately laughing and crying… sometimes both… until they settle into a calm, solid acceptance that yes, this is _real_…

"You're here," she breathes, leaning up to touch his face, to press her palm flat onto his chest and anchor him here in case he gets any ideas about disappearing again. "You're _really back_."

"I'm really back," he says, wiping his wet eyes with the heel of his hands. He sits up and she scoots back to give him space as he pats his head, his shoulders, his arms, on down to stomach and legs. "My body," he laughs with delight, with wonder. "Mine. Wow. I'm a real boy!"

He suddenly shoots to his feet, stomps one then the other, shakes himself out and starts darting around the studio like a frisky puppy, running his hands over his easel, the crusty brushes and tubes of paint on the table, his unused canvases stacked on the shelves like he's greeting old friends.

"My stuff!" he crows, and she laughs until she cries again, eyes glued to his every silly move, beaming at him like he hung the moon.

He stops abruptly, brow furrowing, and looks with distaste down at his black jeans, black jacket, black t-shirt...

"And that's another thing — why'd he always have to go and dress me up like Jason?"

He grins up at her playfully, and she's quite sure that this is the second happiest day of her life. Nothing beats having her boys come back to her, alive and well, no matter how it's happened…

"I love you so much," she manages, heart so full she's surprised she gets that much out.

"No, I love _you_, Elizabeth. You have no idea."

They gaze at each other, eyes adoring, smiles so broad and relentless their cheeks begin to ache.

"So," she finally chirps. "Where were you? Tell me, what was it like?"

"Hmm, what was it like." He wanders to the counter, leans back against it and crosses his legs at the ankles. "It was like… dreaming, I guess. Sometimes everything was vivid and linear, sometimes it was weird and disjointed… other times I was just… gone," he says with a dismissive wave of his large, graceful hand.

"But the dreams weren't happening to me," he continues. "I was a detached observer. I had no real control… though sometimes I'd pass judgment on the proceedings, maybe make a wisecrack, and he'd _react_… usually by getting really pissed," he laughs, pauses as he notices the key to the studio lying on the counter at his elbow. He picks it up, fingers it. "But that's the only thing that gave me hope," he says, more pensively. "The fact that I was _present_ somehow. That I could affect him. That's what got me here."

She's been watching him tell the story, speechless with gratitude, reveling in his familiar energy, his animated voice, the way his mouth moves… his _Franco_-ness. He smiles broadly at her then, pockets the key and comes back to sit crossed-legged beside her on the floor.

"So tell me how you did that. How did you get him to bring you here?" she says, interlacing her fingers with his, eager to hang on his every word.

"Okay, so this is pretty cool," he says, scooting closer. "When we lost the competency hearing, I knew that was it, that he'd be hightailing it, and I panicked. I just started, like, psychically throwing myself at whatever was keeping me trapped until it started to get kind of… porous. Does that make any sense?"

"Not really," she laughs. "But none of this does. Go ahead."

"It's hard to explain. Anyway, I knew I had to get him on my turf for a change, so I used a trick I learned while I was trapped, because, hey — smart," he says, pointing to his head with a lopsided grin. "I knew that when he was preoccupied, like driving or watching TV, I could slip in, float a suggestion and sometimes he'd actually _do_ it. So once he was behind the wheel of my car, it was easy to guide him here. And I was right — the closer we got to the studio, the weaker and more confused he got, and the easier it was to influence him. Then you showed up and it was only a matter of time."

"What do you mean?" she says, managing to keep up with his rapid-fire pace.

"We totally tag-teamed him!" He raises his hand for a high five.

"See, I _knew_ you were close," she says, laughingly obliging. "Especially when I saw that key. I could _feel_ you, Franco. I knew you were sending me signs."

"Sometimes I did, but you were awesome on your own… digging at him, getting him behind the easel, knocking him off-kilter so I could sneak in."

They both nod vigorously, full of self-congratulations… but their enthusiasm fades as a heaviness descends between them, a shared awareness that celebrating a man's self-sacrifice might not be appropriate...

"Why did he leave, do you know?" Elizabeth says quietly. "Was it your doing?"

Franco sighs, wraps his arms around his upraised knees. "Not really. He just stopped resisting, and then it was like... two separate lanes of traffic merging into one. He was able to access my memories and suddenly I found myself in the passenger seat instead of locked in the trunk."

"Hmm. I'm noticing a lot of automotive metaphors."

He chuckles, shrugs. "He was really into '70s muscle cars, so now I'll always have that vast font of knowledge to draw from. A lingering bit of resiDrew."

She dips her chin doubtfully. "ResiDrew?"

"Leftovers. Drew Droppings, if you prefer."

She laughs, wrinkles her nose and drops her head on his shoulder.

"I missed your quirky mind," she sighs.

"I missed your everything," he murmurs, fondly kissing her forehead. "Anyway, he remembered my life, the good, the bad and the ugly… and he made his choice."

"It just seemed so… sudden."

"Not so sudden," he says. "The truth is, you got to him, Elizabeth. You really did." He caresses her cheek like she's a wonder, and says with a tinge of sadness, "I'm pretty sure he loved you."

She huffs, rocks back and wraps her arms around herself. "He didn't love me. Lust, _definitely_, I'd say. Between you in his head, and those drawings of me—,"

He cups and lifts her chin until their eyes meet.

"I _hate,_ with blinding fury, that he saw those drawings," he says. "And yes, a lot of it was physical for him, but his feelings were genuine — he'd just never felt that way before and didn't know how to interpret it." He turns to her fully and takes her face between his palms. "Don't underestimate yourself, Elizabeth. You are a singular, luminous force in a dark, chaotic world. He saw it. He felt it… just like I always have. And he left because he couldn't cause you any more pain."

His beautiful, expressive hazel eyes lock into hers and don't let go; even when she blushes under their intensity and tries to look away, they draw her back. She feels a dam beginning to give way inside, tries to plug the leaks as they appear and focus on him, but it's no use — within moments, tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"Hey," he says gently, alarmed.

"I'm sorry," she gulps, dashing at her cheeks. "I want to be strong…,"

"You don't have to be strong anymore," he scolds, pulling her into his arms. "You just go right ahead and break down, okay?"

"Okay," she laugh-weeps, gulps a few shaky breaths, then lets go, lets all the misery and loneliness flood out like wastewater. "It was horrible, Franco," she moans against his chest, clutching at his jacket. "Seeing you, but you weren't you… you were _him_, and he was so _awful_. And not knowing where you were, if you were _suffering, _if you were ever coming back… and I tried to stay strong and positive for the boys, especially Cameron — he felt so guilty, Franco — but everyone was so rotten, the things they _said_... and I needed you… I _missed_ you so much!" she cries. "Living without you was no life at all. It was just… it was…,"

Wracking sobs take over, rendering her incoherent. Franco rocks her, murmuring soothing nonsense sounds until at long last she shudders, sniffs mightily and wipes her nose on the back of her hand before looking up at him with wet, red eyes.

"In other words," she says with a sheepish grin. "I'm glad you're back."

He throws his head back and barks a laugh. "I'm glad I'm back, too," he says, and presses his lips to the top of her head like a steadying hand until she's calm again.

"Better now?" he says, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs and peering into her eyes with genuine concern.

She sniffles, nods. "All better."

His gaze softens, conveying so much love she almost starts wailing again. He takes her hand, trails his fingers over hers as he starts to speak, pauses, starts again…

"Seriously, though," he says. "It was torture for me, seeing the toll this was taking on you. Not being able to communicate with you. Not being able to comfort you… or touch you…,"

He makes a strangled sound and melts toward her, seems helpless to stop himself as his mouth pauses mere inches from hers. She can feel his breath on her lips, feel his desire for her like a sonic wave passing through her body. She realizes that they haven't kissed yet… and a nervous flush comes over her like the first time they really kissed. Not the kiss over toast, but the kiss over _trust_, in his apartment when she told him about her rape. And now, again… the anticipation, the electricity as his lips brush hers, the slow, sensual deepening as hands begin to move and explore… and finally the wild hunger that always seems to overtake them whenever or wherever they are…

But he pulls back with a hiss, grabs her head and presses his brow against hers, his breathing labored. "You know, right? Everything that happened with—,"

She feels his jaw clench before the name can escape. A kind of eradication. A refusal to let _her _come between them any more than she already has.

"I do. I know," Elizabeth gasps through the pain that suddenly comes screaming through her, knocking her flat.

"We should… talk…," he says uncertainly.

A small groan is all she can manage. His hand is cradling her throat, his thumb traces her jawline, and electricity still hums around and between them, oblivious to the subject matter…

"But not now," he adds. "Unless you want to."

"God no," she says, eyes closed tight, fingers touching his lips, feeling the warmth and fullness, needing more. "Unless you do….,"

"Hell no," he growls, grabs her hips… and then she's straddling him, mouth opening to his desperately, and he's devouring her right back, hands moving over her breasts, her ass… cupping, squeezing, then down between their bodies to free himself, to pull her underwear aside…

And then she's sinking down on him with strangled gasps, taking him fully, perfectly, and the aching pleasure of it shatters her, shuts down her mind. They don't speak, barely move… they simply cling to each other and feel. It's enough to be together — two mated bodies, a pair of twin souls, joined once more — and it's enough…

Until it isn't. They rock and grind as one then, huffing and moaning like starving animals. He rises up, rolls her onto her back, and drives inside her until she sees stars. The floor is hard and cold beneath her shoulders, but she couldn't care less. She tightens her legs around his hips, the fabric of his jeans rough on the soft flesh of her inner thighs, and her small body rises to meet every one of his powerful thrusts, her hands clutching the lapels of his jacket until her knuckles go white. He's up on extended arms, looking down at her with hot, black eyes, and she can spot the exact moment his orgasm takes hold — the jerking of his head, the sharp intake of breath, the low, building groan — and it's so deeply arousing to her that she gets there first, bucking, crying out, taking him higher, taking him with her until they're both shuddering and panting in a sated, tangled heap on the floor...

Franco recovers first, blinks, blows out a blast of stunned air. He rolls onto his back and brings her along to nestle on top of him. She lifts her head, rests her chin on his chest and meets his eyes with a drunken smile.

"Hi," he murmurs, playing with her hair.

"Hi," she replies. "Oh, by the way — welcome home."

_**To be continued in STUDIO, Part 7...**_


	10. Studio, Part Seven

**Elizabeth and Frandrew: ****SCENES**

by _Tessaray_

* * *

**STUDIO, Part 7**

Franco peers down into Elizabeth's face; she looks so sated, so deeply in love. It's the same expression she wore that day he sketched her. The sketches that Drew saw…

_Welcome home…_

Her eyes are shining up at him. He knows he should respond with a quip, or at the very least a smile… but he finds he can't. He's not home — not by a long shot. All he can do is run his fingers through her hair — something soft to counter the hard spikes of agitation building inside him.

Not at her…

Never at her.

"Franco," she says, smile fading, tone rising at the end — a question, a concern. She lifts her chin from his chest, moves up his body and gazes into his eyes, but he can't… he _can't_…

He twitches, squirms until he gets himself out from underneath her, and scrambles to his feet. He looks down, tucks himself away, zips his jeans. He knows she's gaping up at him, mouth an 'o' of hurt and confusion, but he can't face her.

"Water," gasps, suddenly parched as an Arizona highway, hot as a radiator about to blow… though he's never been to Arizona and his internal collection of metaphors never included highways or cars before but they're all he can think of now, and…

_Fuck!_

This goddamned jacket feels like a _straight_-jacket, cutting off his circulation. He violently tears it off, hurls it to the floor, kicks it with all his might… and now he's winded and sweating, an invisible weight crushing his chest. He bends over, clutches his knees as the room spins wildly…

And why can't he fucking _breathe_… why can't he…

An insistent hand is rubbing his back. Elizabeth's voice is instructing him in this most basic of reflexes he's somehow forgotten — _slowly, slowly, focus on the breath, feel it expand your chest, your belly... and exhale, focusing…_

And then he's sitting in the chair where he'd sat on their first date. There had been a rose in a vase on the table. He'd been nervous about showing her his painting. She'd been so beautiful…

Like she is now, kneeling on the floor, looking up at him, a hand on his knee…

"I'm okay," he says, not because he is, but because she needs to hear it.

"No, you're not." Her voice is trembling. "Talk to me."

He shakes his head, sees that his hands are on her bare white shoulders… sees, beneath the thin black straps of her camisole, that there are red abrasions on her upper back...

He remembers pressure building inside him, remembers desperation, fear…

"We were rough with you before," he groans through a stab of guilt, of shame. "I'm so sorry."

Her brow creases for an instant, then she squeezes his knee, leans closer. "You weren't, Franco... you were—,"

But he's moved on, doesn't hear the rest. He's fascinated by the way her skin feels against his palms… like warm satin, like fresh cream…

"You let him touch you," he says distantly, watching his fingers drift from her shoulder to the delicate curve of her collarbone. "What was that like. How did it feel?"

Her face reddens, tightens with tension.

"Franco—,"

"I want to know."

"It felt _wrong_." She sounds affronted, like it should be obvious. "It _was_ wrong. Everything was wrong because he wasn't _you_."

"So… he didn't get to you," he murmurs, eyes moving to her mouth. "Not even a little. Not even when he did this?" He takes her face between his hands, leans down and kisses her full, red lips…

She pulls away, hands wrapped around his wrists. "Of course not," she says, tears wavering in her eyes. "I wanted _you_. I needed _you_ and I always will. I knew you were in there, and everything I did was to get you back."

It's not that he doesn't believe her… it's that he's unmoored, floating from impression to impression, some are his, some are not…

And gradually he realizes that his joy, his relief and gratitude at inhabiting his own body again, that his need for her… they had all been keeping a storm at bay… a storm that's on the horizon and moving fast…

"I was jealous," he says, running his thumb a bit too hard over her lower lip. "I was so envious that he could touch you and I couldn't. I couldn't do _anything_, Elizabeth."

As his voice breaks, her grip on his wrists tightens. Her hands feel so slight and weak, but he knows better. She's strong — no, she's formidable. He's seen it. And that's good, because the storm is closing in; he can smell the ozone, hear the rumble of thunder. He's been here before; it's too soon to be here again… he's not whole yet, he hasn't recovered from the last time the memories came…

"I couldn't do anything and I couldn't _prevent_ anything, either," he rasps, throat like sandpaper. "I couldn't stop what they were doing. Do you understand?"

Her eyes are holding his in an unblinking death-grip of empathy, ready for whatever comes…

_A warrior's eyes…_

He knows she understands, knows he's safe, so he stands still and lets the storm come and explode him outward. It comes, surprisingly — or not — in the form of an abused, outraged child.

He's three years old. No four. Maybe five…

"I don't like when people use my body," he says, voice thin and shaky, shoulders hunching, knees drawing up to make himself even smaller, unsee-able, un-hurtable.

"I know," she whispers, voice trembling, appalled.

"I tried to go away like I used to, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything." The things he's seeing, things being done to him… he doesn't want them, but he's helpless, heart pounding, stomach churning like he might throw up. "Do you believe me?"

She makes a strangled sound, presses her wet cheek into the palm of his hand but doesn't break her lock on his eyes… like she knows, quite rightly, that he'll disintegrate without it.

"I do. I believe you," she says fiercely. "You didn't do anything wrong, my love."

"They did?" he says, unsure.

"They did," she says, so forcefully he's sure she's right.

"I hate them," he hisses, blood going hot in his veins.

She nods. "So do I."

"I _hate_ them!" he shouts, throwing his whole body into it, inhabiting it in a way he couldn't then. "I _hate_ those _selfish motherfuckers_!" He's rigid now, seething, every muscle a clenched fist on the verge of spasm…

But the storm suddenly passes, releasing him… and he sags back in his chair, exhausted.

Elizabeth is still watching him with hawk eyes, radiating tension…

He gulps a series of breaths until he feels mostly himself again. "I'm okay," he says, mind and body still reeling with sense-memories, but now they're impotent as dreams. "I really am okay this time. I love you."

She blows a warm stream of air through rounded lips, slumps back on her heels and eases her iron grip on his wrists. She blinks for what seems to be the first time, breaking their locked gaze... and the ground seems a bit less solid under his feet.

"I love you, too," she says, wiping tears from her cheeks. "So much. Babe, I'm so so sorry you went through that. I can't even imagine…,"

"I'm sorry for what you went through, too," he says, jaw clenched. "My God, you better keep me away from Kim for the foreseeable future. That _bitch_. I don't trust myself not to—," he breaks off, alarmed by the violence flaring inside him. He runs a hand through his hair, exhales heavily.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some serious therapy around all this—,"

"—Not with _Kevin,_ though," she interjects. "He betrayed us, Franco."

He scans his hazy memories, finds the competency hearing, Kevin's uneasy testimony…

"He told the truth," he says with a half shrug, holding no ill-will... but he sees Elizabeth's eyes blaze at him. "Drew was in control," he explains. "He was every bit as autonomous as we are right now. Kevin acted with integrity and he made the right call… regardless of what we… or Scotty... may think," he chuckles, recalling the sight of Pops laying the good doc out flat on the courtroom floor.

"Scotty!" Elizabeth cries, sitting bolt upright. "We have to tell him, and the boys! Oh my God, Franco, they'll be over the moon!"

His heart skips and swells, his skin ripples at her excitement, her happiness — the only things that make this bizarre existence of his worthwhile…

"What?" she says, caught by the expression on his face.

He blinks, shakes his head, at a loss. All the rage and turbulence that had so unhinged him only moments ago seem to have just... vanished. Zapped into oblivion, by _her_.

"_I love you_ isn't enough," he says. "There's gotta be a word that means _beyond love, infinite love, love to the power of a billion_… probably something French…,"

She stands up, grabs his hands and hauls him to his feet. "Well, why don't you invent one on the way home," she says, bobbing up to peck his cheek.

"Home," he repeats, letting it sink in. No resistance now… it feels right, necessary. It's where he belongs. "Yeah," he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her fully. "Let's go home."

He spots and retrieves her jacket from the floor by the armchair and holds it up for her. He lifts her hair out of the way, strokes his finger along the nape of her neck as she shrugs into it, and when he lets her hair go, he watches it tumble, sway and settle… dark and silky over her back...

"Such a simple thing," he breathes, lost in wonder.

She turns, brow raised, small fingers closing one of her buttons.

"Just… it's good to be alive," he says.

Her reply is a dazzling smile. "Come on," she says, tugging his arm.

They're crossing the room when he has an impulse he needs to obey; he moves to the easel where Elizabeth's portrait looks back at him from the drawing pad. He picks up the pencil, makes a few quick adjustments to the left eye, returns the pencil to the tray…

"Fixed it," he mutters, and steps back, head tilted, appraising. "That was driving me crazy."

Elizabeth is beside him, echoing his posture. He knows she's seeing the portrait for the first time and he feels a strange pinch of anxiety…

"Wow," she breathes, clearly impressed. "The style is similar to yours — the shading, the quality of the line. But there's something… I don't know…,"

"Impressionistic. Uniquely his," Franco murmurs, objectively critiquing the image with his artist's eye… but subjectively, it feels damn creepy that something that flowed from his own hand is something he, himself, could never have created…

"He had talent," Franco says, a small lump forming in his throat. "And he had vision. Maybe if his life had gone a different way…,"

"I think he was satisfied with his choices," Elizabeth says curtly.

He turns, puzzled by her tone.

"Please, Franco. Can we stop talking about Drew? I don't want to feel sorry for him."

"Any more than you already do?"

Her eyes fly almost comically wide.

"It's okay," he chuckles, drawing her into his arms. "I was with him at the end, you know... when he chose to die so I could live. I felt your compassion. I know you cared about him."

She sighs into his chest. "It was hard not to. Despite everything, there was something… pitiable about him."

He holds her closer, rests his chin lightly on the crown of her head… and pictures Andy, his kind-of brother — so sweet, so full of potential, as all little boys are… as he, himself had been…

"I know," he murmurs. "The truth is, he didn't have a happy life. He was courageous and accomplished… but he was lonely. Driven. Bitter. I wish…,"

She leans back in his embrace and looks into his eyes, a loving smile tugging her lips. "What do you wish, you impossibly kind and generous man?"

_I wish he'd had someone like you…_

He wants to say it… but he caresses her cheek instead, overcome with gratitude to the universe, to any and all gods, that _she_ should find _him_ worthy…

"I just wish there'd been a way for both of us to go on living," he says. "I wish things had turned out differently for him. _That_ version of him, before Helena got her talons into him."

Elizabeth's eyes lose focus, her face clouds… and he knows what she's thinking as surely as if she'd said it… and it's a knife in his heart.

"I know about Drew," he says softly. "_Our_ Drew. I know he's gone."

Fresh tears fill her eyes. He gently presses her head back against his chest so he doesn't have to see his own grief reflected in her face… grief he'd been unable to express, trapped inside that hellish dreamscape. It's too new, too much, on top of everything else...

"I think a part of me was in denial," she's saying, sagging in his arms like the last weight has been lifted. "I couldn't bear losing both of you at the same time... but now, I feel like I can finally mourn."

"We'll mourn together," he whispers, tight with pain. "We'll share the grief: you, me and the boys. We'll find a way to honor his memory. That's how it should be."

With a final hug and soft shared kiss, they slowly separate, sadness palpable between them. As she sighs and turns for the door, he gently touches her elbow.

"Hey…," he says, taking her small hands in his, holding them tightly. "Before things get crazy with everyone, I just want to say… I know how hard you fought for me." He lifts fiercely loving eyes to hers. "_Thank you_."

"We all did," she says, a bit shyly.

"But it was a special kind of hell for you. I saw it in your face, every time you looked at me — at _him_. So much pain, so much hope… but a little less hope every day. I can't bear to see you like that again, Elizabeth. Ever."

She's quiet, eyes dropping to the floor, but when she raises them again he knows something has shifted...

"Well, you won't have to," she says. "You came back, just like you promised."

He picks up on the playful sparkle in her voice — it says _no more sadness, no more pain… not today_…

"I did promise that," he says, matching her tone, pulling her arms around his waist. "I said to Cam, I said, 'Now Cam, you go home and you tell your mom'…,"

"Yes you did! And here you are!"

"Here I are," he says, lowering his mouth... first to kiss her smiling lips, then to brush along her strong, proud jaw… now to her throat, arching and swanlike. He teases her secret, sensitive spots, nibbles until she shivers and melts against his body…

"Maybe we don't need to tell them all in person," he breathes, pulling the satiny camisole free from the waistband of her skirt, sliding his palms over the heated skin of her back. "We could just call them. Give them a half hour or so to let the good news sink in."

She makes a low sound of protest, but her hands are roving freely over the back of his jeans, pulling his closer…

"Or maybe a text," he growls, unzipping her skirt, pushing it down…

"Franco… stop, stop," she whisper-sighs, half-heartedly trying to move away. "It's not fair."

"Or an emoji," he groans, lost in the feel of her. "That should be plenty."

"Franco," she laughs, uselessly pushing at his arms. "We have to go home."

"Aargh! Okay. You're right, you're right." He blows out a blast of frustrated air, gives her a final squeeze and reluctantly lets her go.

As she zips up and rights her clothing, she shoots him a fiery look that goes straight to his groin. "But we have all night," she purrs.

"All night, for the rest of our lives," he purrs back, watching her lips part, her eyes lose focus…

And apropos of nothing, a goofy thought suddenly strikes him. "Hey," he says. "Drew is the past tense of draw!"

Elizabeth bursts out laughing, takes his hand and leads him to the door. "I knew you'd get around to that eventually," she says.

"Did you?" He scans his memory banks, sees her posing in that armchair, sly as a fox, determined to get her man back, whatever it takes. Moved, he gathers his indigo-eyed warrior into his arms again, bends her back and kisses her deeply — a long, lingering, full-bodied tongue kiss that leaves them both breathless…

"Let's get out of here," he growls, feeling her eyes hot on him as he pulls the door open and lets her pass him into the hallway…

He pauses a moment and turns back toward the studio… takes a breath and scans the space, remembering… honoring a fallen hero.

"Thank you, Brother," he says softly. "Thank you for my life."

He switches off the light, joins Elizabeth in the hallway, and closes the door firmly behind them.

**_The End_**


End file.
